Apologies in advance for the cynic and sour start.
I don’t like my brother Alan. For sure he’s an asshole. Plays his music too loud and too late, macks the last piece of the pizza YOU bought in the fridge, leaves a puddle on the tile in the wake of every shower- but before you condemn my soul to the depths of hell, allow me to offer a line of justification. He treats my mother like fucking shit, inadvertently leaving me with a perma pill chewing taste in my mouth. Go chew a Tylenol and sympathize. This aggression will not stand man!
This should elaborately portrait paint my reasoning as to why I’m happy he just bailed out of this cruise two days prior. Well, half of my reasoning- allow me to do what I do best and elaborate further.
Instant message received.
Fantasyangxl: Dude Alan just bailed on the cruise.
(Yes Fantasyangxl is Adam’s screen name, and I can offer no explanation in his defense, primarily because I’ve never asked.)
Snow2punk: WHAT
I completely drop conversation with Adam as my genetically inherited Jew brilliance begins ticking in a direction proportionate to my favor.
I’m going to get Travis in on this.
I AM GOING TO GET FUCKING TRAVIS ON THIS FUCKING CRUISE.
I windows + L my shit and burst to the outside.
Dial Daddy.
Me: DAD!!!
Dad: SON!!!
Me: DAD! CAN WE SWAP ALAN’S SPOT FOR TRAVIS?
Daddy’s a part-time travel agent you see. Part-time because he’s registered as a travel agent for the sole purpose of receiving discounted cruises.
Daddy informs it’ll be a mere fifty smackers to transfer the name from Alan Wise to Travis Tonsbeek. I have absolutely no clue as to the reason why, nor do I fucking care.
I run back in.
Me: TRAVIS!!!
Travis is one of my best friends, and I only use the plural form in respect to my other best friends.
Travis is oh to well accustomed to that fire in my eye. That fucking frantic excited-way-to-fucking-early me.
So what? I get a little excited.
Me: Dude you mind paying fifty to go on a cruise with me this weekend?
Trav: pff NO.
He retorts with that I-can’t-believe-you’d-fucking-ask-me-that tone.
It’s Friday and Travis and I have successfully cleared customs with two white Stoli filled Listerine bottles, 10 Rockstars and 6 gatorades. Oh yeah, and some clothes.
I have two initial priorities boarding this floating party.
1. Achieve an adequate drunk prior to eating lunch
and
2. Get my 16 year old sister drunk.
Travis and I sit at the first bar in sight. About 6 paces from the entrance to the ship. Efficient bar placement if I do say so myself.
And I do.
Double vodka-Redbulls for the both of us, and one for Adam.
Magically our bags have arrived in our cabin before I can even finish my drink.
The three of us waste no time pouring another, as well as pouring a specially made one for sweet innocent (laughable) little Heather.
I say specially made because I mix 1/4 vodka, 3/4 Rockstar- a bit of a switch up from our normal half and half ratio which I’d normally deem a crime to pour otherwise. That being said, the girl is 16 and fucking tiny to boot.
The hours to follow prior to the mandatory attendance muster (safety) drill will be spent scourging the decks for attractive females and proceeding continuation of achieving mind state obliterated.
I have no entertaining commentary pertaining to the muster drill, other than my father successfully ducked out on it again. The fucker’s a pro yo. What’s his cruise count now Adam? Like 46 I think? Diamond Plus baby! But alas, this is separate story entirely.
Which brings us to 6pm, bar adjacent to the casino.
There’s absolutely only one fucking reason we aren’t gambling right now, and that reason is because the casino doesn’t open til 6:30- when this over-sized fun ship hits international waters and the party officially begins.
Pathetic right?
Hah.
Yes. Travis, Adam, my father and myself are all waiting outside the casino waiting for that shit to pop.
What kinda half Jew would I be if I didn’t participate and appreciate the fine art that is gambling?
A fucking shitty one, so I must pay my respects.
I’m unsure as to your personal experience in a casino, but allow me to offer a brief intermission on the inter-workings.
The people you enter the casino with won’t be the people you stay with.
You get lost in there bro.
Before I know it I’m betting strategic roulette with Adam reading me off numbers to play. I can see my dad within view at the black jack table.
Naturally, Travis is fucking missing.
Fucking Travis in the mother fucking casino.
I’m winning a fuck ton of money. Seven hit numbers in a row. I’m laughing hysterically as my dad joins up.
Dad’s got a keen knack to be there at the right time, as well as when to walk.
On the cruise prior, which I unfortunately was not on, a successful female roulette player taught my brother and father just how to play roulette- and win.
We’ve all had it wrong all along. Apparently betting money on your family’s birth dates isn’t an adequate way to play roulette and come out a winner.
You gotta play a quarter of the wheel based on the numbers that are poppin’ off.
Dad and I are winning some serious money. We’re the only two at the table. Tipping the dealer ten smackers every time he spins in our favor. Ordering Mai Tais at every 10 minute increment.
As Derek says, if you don’t have a drink with an umbrella in your hands while on a cruise ship, you’re monumentally FUCKING UP.
And I spot Travis.
I spot the Travis I’m only familiar with in Vegas.
Stern look, drink guzzling Travis.
Me: How are you man?
In Regards to his wallet, not his personal well being, and despite I already know the answer.
Trav: Down two.
As the straw finds its way back into his mouth.
I explain to Travis the fortune at hand and advise he start placing bets following my father and I’s lead.
And naturally we start losing.
Trav’s luck would be laughable had he not lost so much fucking money every time we hit the casino together.
The night ensues in typical scenarios to the above, and only one notable/memorable event worth mentioning (partially do to high alcohol intake) is the snail eating.
Travis and I order escargot at dinner. And whether you’d like to attribute this to our inebriated mindset, we liked it. There’s actually an unflattering video floating around somewhere, one which won’t be seen by you nor posted by me.
Saturday.
Mexico.
Now as much as I’d love to continue my gawk at this fat ass sea lion (and believe me this fucker is FAT) we got matters to attend to.
Pharmacies to pillage, strippers to wreck, margaritas to guzzle.
So let’s keep this sequential yeah?
Full blood Jew dad and half blood Jew son both got one thing on their minds, and to the fucking pharmacy we go.
Not just any pharmacy mind you, the one owned by Roberto.
I use Roberto’s name because daddy is on first name basis with the man. Go figure right?
I wait patiently as my dad fulfills his knapsack-needing order.
And finally it’s my turn.
I got only one thing on my mind.
Err, HAH.
You know me too well.
Fine.
That’s a blatant lie.
Me: I want ambien.
If you know me, you’re well aware I’m a chronic insomniac. If you don’t know me, well you know I am one now.
Roberto scuffles to his back room.
It’s been five minutes.
This isn’t looking good.
Roberto, the only trust worthy pharmacist in the region, is out of fucking ambien.
Mother FUCKER.
Me: Painkillers?
Roberto inquires as to what painkillers would intrigue me.
Me: The stronger the better!
Roberto: I have Vicodin, $3.50 each
Err, umm, meh.. nah.
I pass.
Roberto: Have you ever tried Xanax for your sleeping problem?
Xanax. Sweet sweet Xanax. How could I ever forget about you?
I purchase an undisclosed-to-you quantity of Xanax. Xanax bars.
Roberto: A quarter or a half of one of those will put you to sleep.
Daddy looks over to me with that you-know-better-than-that-son look.
Daddy: You take the full.
Hah! Oh the striking wonderment of genetics.
(at this point in the oral telling, Derek exclaims “TELL ME YOU DIDN’T TAKE ONE RIGHT THERE”)
To address what you’re all probably thinking, no. No I did not.
Eric Wise certainly did not pop a Xany directly after purchase.
At this point Adam and dad roll out to get a massage, leaving Trav and I with Heather and step mom to guzzle margaritas at a restaurant nearby.
Yes. My dad also has a first-name-basis masseuse in Ensenada.
Fucking dad.
Adam returns sooner than dad.
Me: Finish your taco bro, we’re going to the strip club.
And we do.
We head to the strip club. The same one we got kicked out of last time, but again this is another story entirely.
There are two bouncers sitting in chairs outside of the strip club door.
There are also five Federalis appearing to be hassling them.
Meh fuck that. I’m Eric Wise, I am drunk and I am going to see some titties.
I push through the middle of the Federalis.
Me: YO we wanna go in!
The bouncers inform me that the titty bar is closed.
For what reason, I’m unaware but my heart frowns…
And then smiles as my conversation obviously is overheard by a Mexican citizen passing by.
This Mexican promises me he can bring us to the strip club we desire, and we follow suit.
I hope your imagining a drunk Eric, Adam and Travis stumbling down a dark beaten alley way behind touristy Ensenada, because that’s where we are.
I have my fist clenched, waiting for some Mexicans to pop out and try to steal the hundreds in my pocket.
(As I come to find later in the evening, Adam and Travis both feared the same and also walked fists clenched.)
But alas! This trustworthy Mexican has led us to the promised land and inside we go!
There is no cover charge bro! WELCOME TO MEHICO!
The three of us order a round of Dos Equis and top shelf tequila shots.
Mexican strippers know white boys with money when they see em, and waste no time accordingly.
I’m in there maybe two minutes and I got this bitch in my lap with her hand rubbing my crotch.
Oh Mexico. I fucking love Mexico.
I deny her lap dance offer as I’m fairly confident I can find a cuter faced one.
And you’d think, this being Mexico, that I’d simply settle for a girl with all her teeth.
Mother FUCK I am Jewish.
Some unknown-to-me thus unknown-to-you quantity of Dos Equis and tequila shots later, we’re approached by that fine faced stripper.
And she wastes no time.
Stripper: Lapdance?
Me: Yeah!
The stripper extends her hand to take mine.
Hrm. I mean, I did want a lap dance, but for some reason something was just off.
Me: I’ll buy for him.
I point to Travis accordingly.
Travvy fucking grins as his hand is held by this stripper and he disappears into the abyss.
He’s gone maybe two minutes and Adam and I were approached again.
Stripper: Lapdance?
Me: Sure.
This time I let her take my hand.
As I’m led to the back room the stripper moves my hands to her ass.
No quarrels here.
In the off chance you’re a complete fucking retard, this isn’t the Spearmint Rhino in Van fucking Nuys. Touching, or more adequately put, groping is not only allowed but encouraged. The stripper places both my hands on her breasts accordingly.
Perfect size and real.
And you know I’m partial to the C cup.
The stripper informs me my dance is almost over.
Stripper: Do you want the special dance?
At a Southern Californian strip club a “special” dance is more or less translated into longevity.
Do I want you to continue grinding on me for the next half hour for sixty bucks?
Clearly.
I KNOW YOU FUCKER. I KNOW. I’M A FUCKING IDIOT.
I’m so fucked up this somehow even gets passed this savvy Jew.
I figure out what I’ve done as I’m being led into a different room.
A room with a door on it.
And the stripper has a box of Kleenex in her hand.
(Oh I’m incapable of fathoming the suspense you must be in with what the fuck I’ve done now.)
I sit down in this 5X5 foot room.
The stripper shuts the door and sits down on my lap, grinding away.
And she gets up.
Stripper: The condom cost you five dollars ok?
What the fuck? I could buy a whole fucking box of condoms for..
NO WHAT THE FUCK!
Me: NO!
Me: NO NO NO NO NO!
No doubt the stripper’s taken note of the money I’ve been spending in this place and my quarrel isn’t with the price of a 5 dollar condom.
She starts rubbing my chest in effort to seduce me.
Stripper: What’s wrong baby? You don’t like sex?
Oh I’m fairly positive this bitch knows I like sex, however I’m doubtful my D passing Spanish grade can explain to this female I am not going to fuck her in fear of some unfavorable STD contraction.
I receive a normal lap dance and walk away.
Walk away with that type of awkward face. That awkward face you can FEEL.
Would I have fucked her had this been a legitimate American establishment?
I’m going to walk away with this with a notch of morality under my belt regardless of your conclusion.
I sit back down in between Trav and Adam, ordering another round of beers as well as another round of shots.
Two strippers approach. One with the sole intent of seducing Adam, and the other Travis.
Stripper A: Lapdance?
Adam’s got that awkward E vibe going on.
Me: ADAM GO!
And he does.
Upon his return, Trav’s stripper is still on his lap.
This girl is straight up rubbing his cock through his jeans.
Fuck if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was a handjob.
Travis and I meet eyes. The dude-what-the-fuck? eye meet.
He’s smiling though, I’m laughing, and he’s not stopping her.
Adam and I both look at each other with that baffled what-the-fuck smirk, both making certain to not look down at Trav’s crotch.
Conversing with Adam and the following grabs my attention:
Stripper on Trav: I WANT TO SUCK YOUR DICK!
HAHA WHAT?!
No whisper of elegance as a white woman would approach. This is a loud fucking exclamation!
“I WANT TO SUCK YOUR DICK!”
And after the completion of her exclamatory, guess who shows the fuck up?
Dad.
Haha.
How the fuck did Dad find us in this, what I’m calling now, WHORE HOUSE in the back alley of Ensenada?
Daddy collects his boys and we head back to the ship.
I stow my Xanax in my step mom’s purse, solely because I’d rather her get caught smuggling them on board as opposed to myself.
Sinister? Haha. I know.
Sometime later we’re back in international waters.
And you know god damn well what that means.
I join my father at the craps table.
I can’t begin to adequately describe the feeling of elation when you’re “on a roll”.
It’s fucking UNFATHOMABLE.
I’m on a fucking roll!
I mean, I AM ON A FUCKING ROLL.
The table is cheering!
Eric is winning money!
Eric is winning money for dad!
Eric is winning money for the entire god damned table!
EVERYONE LOVES ERIC.
ERIC IS THE CENTER OF FUCKING ATTENTION.
This is a male father-son bonding moment.
Dad and I are slapping high fives and hugging each other with each roll, scraping our winnings off the table.
Have you met my father? He’s the definition of masculine. A little family history for ya- My dad’s name is Jan, solidifying resentment towards my grandmother from birth. True, Jan is commonly a female name and my father explains the ridicule only ceased post dropping out of high school at some point in the 10th grade. To arrive at my destination point, my father named myself and male siblings using a simply designed template incorporating the factors of short, masculine and cannot-be-made-fun-of-or-rhymed-with. On a side note, unfortunately this has no effect of the attempt of the witless to add a “the” in between my first and last name, or incessantly ask me if I’m wise- since we’re on the subject. That being said, this does not unnerve me, but it does make you look like a fucking idiot.
At some point after this I actually adapt the mentality that it’d be humorous to spend as much money as I possibly can.
Apparently, in sober actuality, losing $1500 dollars isn’t really all that funny.
Actually it’s not fucking funny at all.
I can only attribute the thousand and a half lost to rationalization that shooting craps with my father is an adequate makeup for him neglecting to play catch with me as a boy…
YO ELEVEN!
A prior Mexican cruise story: La Bufadora
There’s an incriminating interlude strategically left out of this post, if you ask privately, I may just supply.